A Walk in the Time of Coronavirus

I had long wanted to take a bike ride around the neighbourhood, say thirty kilometres or so.

I slung a rucksack with a thermos and sandwiches over my shoulder and set off right after a brief, harmless shower.

For a while I cycled through fields, then through a forest, and when I had gone far enough I decided to take some photographs. Luckily I really liked a village built literally in a little grove. Right next to it spread a huge park with playgrounds.

I ride along the streets admiring the view, stopping only to take a picture.

I noticed that absolutely nobody was wearing a mask. They live as though the coronavirus had nothing to do with them. But in general there were few people about. Surely they were waiting out the rain.

At some point I felt that I was being watched. I turned around, and so it was. A black SUV was following me, and at the wheel sat an old woman of about 80, observing me with hostility.

I turned into a side street, and she followed. I stopped, and she stopped. And not far off, just a few metres from me.

Unable to bear such close attention, I greeted her and asked:

- What do you want?

The old woman answered with a question:

- Why are you taking photographs?

- I'm on a little trip. I like the nature here, the houses, the gardens. So I take pictures. I'm not a criminal. Nobody can forbid me.

I said goodbye to her and rode on.

The persistent old lady followed me again.

What are you going to do with her?

So I went deeper into the park, where a car can't follow. I sat down on a bench and decided to have some tea. But I see that the vigilant old woman has no thought of leaving. She monitors my actions and drives back and forth along the road nearby. Then she stopped altogether and watched from a distance.

To be continued

Food always tastes good out in nature. I didn't even notice that I had eaten two sandwiches. The thermos didn't let me down either. The water in it was like boiling water (that's what a Bosch does for you!), not cooled by even a quarter of a degree, so I enjoyed every sip. I admit this vigilant old lady was starting to irritate me. I suppose I could start heading back, I had ridden far enough.

I packed my provisions into the rucksack, carefully stowed the thermos, put the rucksack on and got on the bike.

The old lady suddenly vanished, and I very much regretted not photographing her for memory's sake. Well, we may meet again, and then I'll capture her. I won't miss the chance.

I had never experienced such close interest from the locals before. I felt a certain discomfort.

On the way out, a church suddenly appeared from behind the trees, with a monument beside it to those killed in the First and Second World Wars. Such monuments exist in every village and every settlement in Austria and Germany.

Usually it bears an inscription like this:

"Our best sons, who fell in the wars."

And below it are listed the surnames of all the dead. Sometimes they write where exactly the soldier fell. 80% of the fallen were killed on the Russian Empire and Soviet Union front.

Perhaps for Germans and Austrians they are the best sons, but not for me. And I personally have serious reasons for that.

Nowadays the Austrians claim that Hitler annexed them in 1938 against their will, but then who was it standing in the square in front of the imperial palace (the Hofburg) and greeting his appearance on the balcony with a raised arm? That memorable summer, tens of thousands of Viennese gathered in the square to see the Fuhrer.

And the elite mountain unit "Edelweiss" consisted almost entirely of Austrians. They have always been good marksmen. Even now practically every house has a carbine. And their sniper rifles are still the best in the world.

Somewhere in these parts my own uncle fought. He had been a partisan in Belarus from the age of fourteen and was then drafted into the army in 1944.

Those who knew him closely in wartime said he was as angry as the devil!

He had reasons to hate the occupiers.

I'll put it briefly: he took no prisoners.

Looking at this monument, I thought of many things.

Right there in a small public garden stood two benches. I decided to drink a glass of tea and set off again.

I see a police car driving straight from the north. It stopped not far away. Two police officers, a man and a woman, hurriedly got out, putting masks on their faces as they went, and came toward me at a brisk pace.

- Hello! - said the policeman. - Show me your documents.

The first thing I thought was: "Damn that old woman!"

Staying silent didn't work. The policeman came closer and demanded more insistently:

- Show me your passport.

- I don't have my passport with me.

- Show me your driving licence.

- I don't have that either. - What are you doing here?

The intonation was getting sterner.

I mentally cursed that vigilant old woman in the black SUV once more. Perhaps, indeed, I look suspicious from the outside, and to a suspicious old woman all the more so. He has wandered into the depths of Austria (and why here, of all places?), stops by houses and takes photographs. And then there's his appearance: he seems decently dressed, yet for some reason he's unshaven, with long hair and a rucksack on his back. What does he want here?

- I'm on a little trip, looking around the area.

- Why are you not wearing a mask?

- I was riding through fields and forest. You don't need a mask there.

- But now you're in the village. Where is your mask?

- At home. But nobody walks around here in a mask either. - I need your documents.

- My documents are in another jacket.

Perhaps in the policemen's place I would have suspected something fishy too. "Whatever you ask him, nothing is right."

- That old lady told you about me. But I was very polite to her.

- We must check every tip-off, that's why we're here. If you have no documents, we will have to detain you until your identity is established.

I swore under my breath:

- That's all I needed.

- I'm a Russian writer. I'm just looking around the village and taking photos of views I liked.

To be convincing, I typed my first name and surname into my phone. Instantly a mass of information about me popped up in the feed, photographs included. And someone puts all that together. Publishes it. Sorts it. They even made a Wikipedia page (with many inaccuracies, they might have asked me what's correct).

I scrolled through the first fifty books and showed my photo to the woman standing beside me. The policeman didn't come closer. It seemed he was keeping his distance just in case, so he could draw his Glock.

I wanted to add that the combined print run of my books is at least one and a half times the entire population of Austria, but thought better of it. There is no need to say too much about yourself.

Her pretty young face showed complete serenity.

Conclusion to follow

The impression was that she meets unshaven, dishevelled Russian writers with rucksacks every day. Still, I caught some favourable change in her eyes.

- Where do you live? Give me your address.

I gave it.

- Spell your name for us. We will check.

And then I remembered that I had photographed my annual Vienna transport pass on my phone. And I said:

- Wait, I'll show you now.

Having found the photo, I showed her my picture and the spelling of my surname.

She carefully entered my details into some small black device of hers.

She showed her partner, where all my data lit up at once.

- May I take your picture?

- Later, - answered the woman. - When we've sorted everything out. - What's his status? - asked the policeman.

- The woman showed him.

The policeman nodded in confirmation and looked at me attentively, then asked:

- Where were you born?

- I was born in Germany, in the city of Potsdam.

- Date and month of birth? - asked the woman.

I probably wasn't very convincing. And from their point of view I clearly didn't pass for an Aryan.

I gave the date of birth too.

The policemen relaxed. And the fellow, as if apologising, said:

- We had to check. And don't photograph private houses. Better monuments, - he pointed at the memorial to the fallen. - Have a safe journey!

The police car drove away, and only then did I remember that I hadn't photographed them for memory's sake.